


What you see I see

by middlemarch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Conversations, F/M, Humor, Pillow Talk, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Questions in the aftermath.





	What you see I see

“What’s he like? Bond, I mean,” Vivian asked. She looked just as enticing as she had hours earlier when she’d climbed atop him and pushed him back, her surgeon’s hands strong and confident on his shoulders, the look in her eyes brooking no argument. The linens were tousled around her like an odalisque might cunningly arrange, though he knew she’d done nothing of the sort; she was direct and uncomplicated except where she was incomprehensible, as she seemed to be now, with her question and the sleepy expression in her eyes.

“This is your idea of pillow-talk?” he replied, unable to get the image of James’s blue eyes, unfairly like glacial ice, from within his own mind. 

“You prefer endearments and exaggerated congratulations on your prowess? I think not, Gareth. And I’m curious. He’s one of those men people talk a lot about—and I can’t help thinking it’s mostly horseshit,” she said smartly, not at all drowsy now. She’d propped herself up on one elbow and let her dark hair slip forward but she was still bare to the waist and the view was…exquisite. And almost mollifying.

“That’s not the first word most people would choose for him,” he said. Bond, with his bespoke tuxedos and his weapons, his flashy car and his silver shaker, so invested in his own mythos and so oblivious, infuriating, attractive and repellent…

“You’re not most people. We’ve established that. I thought we had. Does he read, d’you think? He doesn’t strike me as a reader,” she went on, shifting closer so her loose hair tickled him. He didn’t feel like laughing.

“Nothing modern. Not his style, I shouldn’t think,” Gareth said. Kipling, if he had to guess, and Graves but not Wilfrid Owen, and if the man had ever read a novel after leaving school, he’d be shocked. He’d had the makings of the Senior Wrangler but he’d wasted that too.

“What else?” she prodded, prodding him also with her other hand low on his belly, stroking upwards to where the hair grew more thickly, then back down, dipping to graze his hip bone. She was very gentle and intent and he didn’t think it was her surgical training. Just Vivian.

“He’s old-fashioned but he’s not a dinosaur. He’s trapped…because he doesn’t want to look at himself and everyone else does. There was a woman he actually loved but she died,” he explained. It was strangely enjoyable to discuss James while Vivian was touching him, listening carefully to what he said and how. 

“How sad. And boring. I thought it would be boring,” Vivian said, surprising him now into laughter. He caught her hand and stopped her.

“Boring?” he repeated.

“Jesus, yes. It’s like a bad movie, one that goes straight to video. Gorgeous, tormented, no insight, dull, dull dull-- Isn’t there anything interesting about him at all? Anything…unexpected?” she said. There was some sort of hunger in her voice, no, some appetite and he noted it but he couldn’t resist, rolled them over so he was looking down at her, felt her hook one leg behind his, that slick, silky thigh pressed against his.

“He’s an exceptionally good bridge player, hates to lose a rubber,” he said. He leaned over to kiss her and felt her lips curve in a smile.

“Is that even true or did you just want to say ‘rubber?’”

He moved to kiss her throat, tasting her sweat, feeling her hips cant up against him.

“Yes, love,” he said, drawing back a little, looking at her warm dark eyes, wondering at her. “Yes?” he asked, waiting to be invited further. For her to relegate James to somewhere far away or just far enough away to be out of their bed, those January eyes watching them both from the corner of the room, from shadows that they’d not plumb just yet.

“Most emphatically yes,” she breathed out, a hand on the back on his neck. “I’m not bad at bridge either, I never miss a trick.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, a post-coital romp for Gareth and my OFC Dr. Vivian Liu, with overtones of slash and voyeurism and my attempt to mine the punny humor of contract bridge.
> 
> The title is from the lyrics to Skyfall. The Senior Wrangler will always remind me of Wives and Daughters.


End file.
